


Carving the Wall

by gjelinga



Category: Code Geass
Genre: Geass is not similar to a wish, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27243283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gjelinga/pseuds/gjelinga
Summary: Geass has consequences, especially for the ones left behind.
Kudos: 12





	Carving the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> A little context to this story. In R1, there was a schoolgirl at Ashford Academy that Lelouch uses his geass on. He used it to make her make a mark on a wall everyday at a certain time. He was testing to see if it could work long-term.
> 
> Between R1 and R2, we know she moved back to the mainland, but we never hear from her again. The wiki says she is "still under the effects of Lelouch's Geass, meaning that every night (due to the time difference) she would escape from her home and try to return to the wall at Ashford." This is a story about her.

The panic attacks started after our happy escape. Honestly, I should've been glad. We were back in Britannia. No one in my family had been hurt in the Black Rebellion, none of our livelihoods were destroyed. In many ways, we were better off.

Our house was large, a modern imitation of some classical style. Simple cylindrical columns, a beautiful patina roof, a spiral staircase branching like the petals of a flower, little nooks and crannies and small spaces a child could explore. You know, one of those places you'd find in a magazine titled "Cozy Places" or something. Safe. Almost magical. I thought I'd be happy here. I was, for a time. Sometimes, I still think I might be happy. I'm not sure anymore. 

It didn't take me long before my parents started noticing it happening. Little trinkets in places they shouldn't be, doors unlocked during the night. I noticed it too, but different. Blood under my fingernails. Scratches on my bedroom furniture. They disturbed me, and I discreetly asked the butler to lacquer the wall black.

I don't remember when it started happening, but I got a feeling, too. Like pins and needles inside my head. It gave me headaches sometimes, like I was trying to access something forbidden. I never mentioned it to anyone. I'm not sure why I didn't.

Then my father caught me sleepwalking. 

It was nothing unusual. Nothing to write home about. At first, at least. 

I used to sleepwalk as a child. My doctors thought it was psychological, tied to vivid nightmares caused by watching too much news. They said it was some primal instinct to run away, find a safe place. Even while dreaming, people hunted for peace.

I understood that. When I was eleven, my cat died and it took us two days to find her body, curled up next to the hot water heater. Mother said it was common in animals, something called "terminal burrowing." When an animal is afraid, there is an almost overwhelming instinct to hide. To find a dark and narrow place and crawl under it. Humans get it too. At first, I thought that was what I had. Some instinct to hide. But it was more mechanical than that. More precise. 

Every night, at 2:16 am, I would get up and look for something. I wasn't sure what. At first, I would wander around the house, scratching at walls. Then I got clever. I started using tools. Pens, needles. Then gradually, knives, scissors. An axe. 

And I did it again.

And again. 

My parents child-proofed all the sharp objects in the house and locked my door every night. I didn't mind. I trusted myself just as much as they did when I entered that cataleptic state. I didn't know what was happening. 

Soon, I heard my parents whispering to the doctors. Was this some sort of adverse reaction to the move? Was I making new friends at school? How was my home life? Teenage girls sometimes had unresolved issues with maternal figures, was my mother being supportive enough? Had I ever exhibited any signs of suicidal thoughts?

I still felt fine. I was as normal as they got. Except late at night, going by the word of others. 

Soon it turned more hostile. The doctors whispered some more–– surely by now I would've adjusted. Perhaps this was just attention seeking behavior. Perhaps my parents needed to enact some good old fashion discipline. 

My mother brought it up to me, and I broke the window the next night and escaped. It took two days to bring me back home, and I have no memory of it. They found me almost twenty miles west of the house. When a policeman questioned me to stop, I just stared at him, my voice plaintive and simple, and told him I needed to go back to Tokyo. 

My parents brought me to the hospital after that. It didn't help. Every night, with my eyes as devoid of emotion as the water inside a well, I would moan about Japan and scream about how I needed to go back. That there was something I had to do to a wall. Some kotel I had to pray to, perhaps. I'm not sure what it was. Other-me was never very receptive to questions. She only cared about the wall. Like that damned wall was the pivot point her whole world revolved around. I hated other-me. She was selfish to a fault.

My days would be normal. A little tired, perhaps. My doctors told me I never got much sleep. But during my nights, I was a marionette being dragged back to that haunted place. A lifeless doll in a madhouse where the music never stopped, perpetually dancing to some high-stepping beat. 

I sometimes wonder what happened there. At that wall. What demon turned on that cursed music and did this to me? I suppose I'll never know. I've accepted that.

I think, one day, when I get older, I would like to go back. Go to Tokyo and fall asleep for once without handcuffs. See where I end up. Sometimes I fear what will happen if I do. Other times, I want nothing but. 

But mostly, I just want out. I want to stop. I can't stop. I doubt I ever will. 


End file.
